


More Delicate Than Silver

by icarus_chained



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Comfort, Courtship, Family, Friendship/Love, Grooming, Happy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:34:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_chained/pseuds/icarus_chained
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There are more delicate things than stone or metal. Things that will not last near so long, or keep near so well. Very undwarven things, most of them. And perhaps it makes me a very undwarven dwarf, a very fussy creature ... but I don't think that makes them less beautiful, or less worthwhile, regardless. Don't you agree?"</p><p>Or, the tale of how Dori, for a brief time and in his own inimitable fashion, courted Gandalf the Grey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Delicate Than Silver

**Author's Note:**

> ... Set immediately after the end of _Unexpected Journey_. I saw a comment, somewhere, on how there should be more stories about Dori, and how he obviously has a little crush on Gandalf. And, what with me being mildly insane, you get ... Um. Well. *smiles faintly* You get this.

Dori was not a dwarf of any particular refinement. (Well, he couldn't be, coming from his family, though anyone who said that to his face could have his fist in their teeth, and be grateful for it). He enjoyed simple pleasures and delicate things, perhaps all the moreso for the care it took to treat them gently in his massive hands. He was fussy and good-mannered, yes, those too. But he was not, at the end of the day, particularly subtle or refined.

For the object of his affections, though, he had tried. Dori was not a foolish dwarf, nor a young lad with his eyes blinded by romance. (Not anymore, at least. Those days were ... rather far behind, now). He knew very well that these things were, in some ways, much smaller and simpler and more delicate than he had once imagined them to be. Less sweeping, and more pragmatic. Simple comforts and simple gestures, freely offered. To be handled gently in massive hands, for they were far more fragile and delicate than they looked.

He knew, too, that for this being in particular, this wizard who was older than any of them would ever hope to be, this creature who had concerns and friends and histories far more vast and powerful than a simple dwarf's, any such affections would be ... absurdly small. Brief glimmers that would fade before they were realised, tiny against the sweep of the wizard's life. Not tawdry, never that. Dori had realised, even if others had not, that there was no gesture of comfort, however small or fussy, that was ever tawdry. But still ... still small. Still largely inconsequential.

So he kept it simple, in gentle acknowledgement of how small it was. A gesture here or there, a little nod to the other's comfort. An offer of chamomile tea, when the opportunity presented itself, and a little personal service to go along with it. A little nod when other business interfered, taking the wizard away from them, understanding the necessity and forgiving it, while others around him groaned or growled in temper. An attempt to be civilised when greeting Gandalf's friends, however distastefully elven those friends happened to be. 

Little things, simple things. Gentle gestures that, while not returned, seemed at least to be appreciated. Not exactly a grand declaration, maybe, but Dori was older than that by some years, and Gandalf ... well, Gandalf by some vast tract of time that possibly didn't have meaning anymore. 

They worried Gandalf, though. Even those simple gestures. Dori had seen the wizard watching him, sometimes, with some soft and gentle mix of sorrow and pity, and even fear. As though Gandalf was afraid that Dori didn't know how small he was, how very frail and useless his affections, and dreaded the moment where he would have to tell him. Dreaded the pain it would cause, when he had to refuse.

It was, in its way, a very gentle gesture of caring in its own right. A small, soft thought, a care for Dori's feelings in return. It warmed Dori to a ridiculous degree, had him smiling secretly to himself as he settled down beside his brothers at night. 

But it was also annoying, and unnecessary, and he had been meaning for some time to ... to clear the matter up. To say some words, delicate and careful, just to let Gandalf know that Dori was not, anymore, the young lad who had dreamed with all his formidable strength, and none of his hard-earned delicacy.

At the base of the Carrock, his chest still warm and thundering where he'd clutched his brothers to it, where he'd held them against the trembling horror of all that had almost happened, the void that had almost swallowed them, save for a wizard's staff held out, at the most desperately perfect moment, to save them ... At the base of the Carrock, leaving Nori to hold Ori close to himself, Dori decided that there could be no better moment.

He found Gandalf seated on a tree on the outskirts of the camp, with his back to the firelight and the company clustered desperately close together. The wizard was staring fitfully up at the stars, his pipe held in hands that seemed, perhaps, to tremble faintly, and his sword, recently cleaned of goblin blood, propped carefully against the roots alongside the staff that had saved Dori's life. And, more importantly, Ori's.

Dori stood a little away from him for a moment. Just watching the mix of moonlight and firelight in the wizard's silver hair, the soft curl of smoke upwards from the warm glow of the pipe bowl. He hadn't gone unnoticed, he knew that. But Gandalf seemed content to let him take his time, and Dori was content to give a moment's thought to how he wanted to do this.

And then, because there was a great deal of difference between delicacy and hesitance, Dori slipped his comb from its pocket and strode forwards to offer a rather larger and more intimate gesture indeed.

"I wondered, Master Wizard," he said softly, coming to rest beside Gandalf, "if you might want some help with your hair?" He very carefully didn't smile at the startled look _that_ got him, and instead gestured softly, with the hand holding his comb, to the battle-snarl of silver hair and beard. "Goblin blood is right sticky stuff, you know. Best to get it out before it sets?"

Gandalf stared, his lips lax for a second around the pipe stem (which Dori was not thinking about, no, he did have _some_ refinement, thank you). And then his lips quirked, instead, the small smile of a being who has seen all possible eccentricities in Middle Earth, and the wizard shrugged lightly, turning a little to present his thatched mane to Dori.

"If you like, Master Dwarf," he said, with a strange note in his voice, at once amusement and something a little like grief. "I'd certainly be grateful."

"... Aye," Dori murmured, his own smile a little crooked itself. Moving forward to stand behind the wizard, and leaning forward to comb his fingers through first, to gently get the weight and the shape, and find the knots before they pained them both. Letting the backs of his fingers brush gently against the wizard's neck, in a gesture so shockingly intimate it was almost indecent, and trying not to feel his heart turn over when Gandalf didn't so much as flinch, though his breath faltered a little through his pipe. "Gratitude might have something to do with it, yes."

Gandalf shook his head. Dori couldn't see his face any longer, but he could hear the small smile. And, again, the touch of grief. "Despite my unfortunate absences this quest," the wizard answered softly, "I am not yet in the habit of casually letting my companions fall to their deaths."

And there was something in that, maybe, some touch of the vast sweep of time that separated them, but Dori let it be. He understood it. He always had.

"Never doubted it," he assured calmly. His fingers sure and careful, the teeth of the comb smooth and guided through hair that was surprisingly fine, for something that looked like it had been dragged through every hedge in Middle Earth. 

Dori smiled faintly at that. Proof enough, maybe. This wizard, at least, did not sit in high, cool rooms in the company of elves, ignoring the plight of lesser beings. This wizard went out and fought beside them, was dragged through trees and hedges and sprays of goblin blood right alongside them. Held out a staff not as an object of power and a symbol of status, but as a branch to keep two dwarves from falling into a vast and terrible void while their brother cried desperately after them from his perch.

Yes, oh yes. A wizard worthy of some small, warm gestures, however tiny they were against the sweep of time.

"You should braid your hair, you know," he murmured as he combed. Little gestures, inconsequential. But warm and smiling, nonetheless. "It keeps it up out of the way, tucked in close where enemies, or trees, can't grab at it. And makes it more likely for the blood to miss it, too. Less volume to attract mess."

Gandalf blinked for a second, and then laughed, startled and cheerful, tipping his head back at little so that his eyes twinkled up at Dori. "How very pragmatic," he noted, with an admirable attempt at sounding stern that faltered quickly in amusement. Dori smirked at him.

"Aye," he agreed, curling his fingers a little in the wizard's hair. "Shocking, isn't it? People think I do it just to be fussy. Fusspot Dori, who's a bit too attached to the delicate things in life." He smiled into the soft glimmer of sympathy in Gandalf's eyes. "The thing I've found, though?" he murmured softly, with pride and knowing and perhaps some touch of defiance. "That the fussiest of things are often also the most pragmatic. And the most pragmatic of things ... also the most beautiful, don't you think?"

The wizard fell still, at that. Hearing, Dori thought, the offer in his tone, the soft explanation behind the words. Those clever old eyes narrowed up at him, startled and evaluating in the light of the pipe bowl, and Dori thought that this time, _finally_ , Gandalf had seen the knowledge in him, the understanding of how small he was, how inconsequential what he offered. How small and warm and perhaps necessary they were, despite that.

"I know how little time you have for us dwarves and our cares," Dori said softly, his fingers curled at the wizard's nape with all the delicacy it had taken him so many years to learn. "By necessity, I know. Even still. I wonder, Master Gandalf ... if I might tempt you anyway? To a brief and thoroughly pragmatic affair, with a rather fussy dwarf?"

He stepped back a little to wait for the answer, his smile placid and gentle still, patient as bedrock. Because he wasn't a young lad anymore, and he knew what he was asking, and he knew what he was offering, and he knew _exactly_ how frail they were, the both of them. Dori wasn't a young dwarf any longer. Hadn't been for some years.

"And ... what of you?" Gandalf asked softly. With that soft worry, and that hesitance, and now a touch of something much more warming still. A touch, Dori thought, of appreciation, and even hope. "What of dwarves, who I'm told care once, and greatly?"

Dori smiled. "Even were that true, and not the ardent story of the young ... I have two brothers who have been the center of my world and my caring for many years, who will be for many yet, and who you have personally pulled out of the fire a number of times now." He shook his head, smiling softly. "I think I shall be content regardless."

He paused, and reached out carefully, his thick fingers hesitating beside Gandalf's cheek, tracing the silver line where his hair drifted into his beard. Asking silent permission and, if not receiving it, receiving no rejection either.

"There are more delicate things than stone or metal," Dori said quietly, threading that silver between his fingers. "Things that will not last near so long, or keep near so well. Very undwarven things, most of them." He paused, chuckled softly. "And perhaps it makes me a very undwarven dwarf, a very fussy creature ... but I don't think that makes them less beautiful, or less worthwhile, regardless. Don't you agree?"

Gandalf stared at him for a long, long minute, the fire in his pipe bowl fading unnoticed in his hands, those ancient eyes worried and hesitant and so very, very warm. And then ...

"There is a house, not far from here," he said at last, with a wonderful crinkle around his eyes, a lightness that Dori hadn't seen before save in the hobbit's home, where Dori gathered Gandalf felt among friends. "An old friend of mine. I had intended to bring the company there regardless. But there are ... Hmm. There will be privacy, there. And comfort." He smiled, eyes twinkling. "I am an old man, Master Dwarf. I appreciate some comfort in such endeavours."

Dori stepped back, his own smile threatening to slip beyond control, a wonderful lightness in his chest, so that he felt that even should another void open up beneath his feet, he might this time fly over it. "All civilised creatures do," he said, laughing softly in delight, and some joy. Gandalf watched him, eyes twinkling, and in such soft and warm delight himself. 

"Until Beorn's, then," the wizard agreed, holding out a worn and powerful hand to clasp Dori's lightly. Businesslike, perhaps, a thoroughly pragmatic affair, but still too light, too warm, to be counted less because of it. "You'll forgive my hesitance, Dori. It has been ... a great many years, since last I tasted such comforts." A little rueful, a little pained, and Dori nodded gently at him.

"Aye," he said softly, smiling gently. "I had thought so." 

He paused, thoughtfully, and then shifted his grip on the wizard's hand, turned it over gently. Gandalf, for his part, simply blinked at him, and watched with some curiosity as Dori pressed the comb into his palm, and curled his long fingers carefully over it.

"A courting gift," Dori explained, smiling faintly. "A token of my esteem." He shook his head, grinning a little. "And, I think, a very pragmatic one. You need it more than I, Master Wizard. Since you will not braid your hair."

Gandalf laughed. "I'm no dwarf, Master Dori," he said. "I fear I would not wear them near so well." But he curled his fingers tight around the gift, and tucked it close against him as Dori bowed and turned back to the fire and his shaken brothers.

And that, Dori thought, was a very warm gesture indeed.

\---

It was two days later, in the warmth and sunlight of the meadow beneath Beorn's beehives, when Ori, with Nori chasing behind him and a half-panicked expression on his face, ran up to Dori where he sat perched on a haystack, putting his rumpled clothing back together and only half paying attention.

"Dori! Dori! Dwalin's going to kill us!" Ori shouted, red-faced as he staggered to a halt in front of his brother.

"Ignore him!" Nori waved his hands dismissively, coming to a much more controlled stop behind Ori. "Ignore him, brother, it's just a small misunderstanding, I'm sure ... I'm sure we can ..."

He stopped, trailed off with the most stupefied look Dori had ever seen on his face, as the hay behind Dori rustled cheerfully, and a rather bedraggled-looking wizard sat up out of it, blinking blearily at them and idly brushing hay out of his beard.

"Hmm?" Gandalf asked, glancing around for his hat and finding it underneath Dori's coat and bracers, clucking in annoyance as he straightened the brim. "What's that?"

They didn't answer, either of them, just gaping stupidly while Ori's face slowly went beet red and Nori visibly scrambled for some way to interpret the situation that wasn't the obvious one. In all his life, Dori had never seen his brothers so utterly stupefied and, quite suddenly, the world seemed the most bright and foolish and warm it had ever been. He laughed, great shuddering peals, and leaned forward to rest his hands on their shoulders, Gandalf warm and amused against his back.

"Close your mouth, Ori, you'll catch flies," he admonished cheerfully, while they stared at him. "And Nori? Do you mind if I borrow your comb, brother? I need to put up my braids, and I'm afraid the wizard has taken permanent ownership of mine."

And they still didn't answer, and they still stared at him as though they had, at last, realised that their elder brother was utterly insane, but Ori closed his mouth (with an odd little squeak, yes, but still) and nodded bewilderedly at Gandalf, and Nori did, with exquisite slowness and some confusion, slip a hand into his coat and pull out his comb. And they looked confused, and they looked wary, and Nori did look like he was trying to think of some way he could plausibly threaten a wizard on the subject of breaking hearts, but when Dori smiled softly and genuinely happily at them, they smiled back just as strongly.

"Thank you," he told them gently, one hand gripping Nori's hand as his brother handed him the comb. "You two head back. I'll be along shortly, alright?" They nodded. "And Ori? You tell Dwalin that he'll keep his axes to himself, or I'll clobber him into next week." He grinned, a little, as Ori gulped, before turning his attention to Nori. Who, not being a stupid dwarf, gulped too. "And Nori? Dearest brother?" He smirked softly. "Say one inappropriate word, brother of mine, and Dwalin will have _company_ , won't he?"

Nori blinked for a moment. Looking between Dori and the wizard behind him, who had rummaged his pipe from somewhere and was currently leaning back in the hay, smoking cheerfully to himself. Nori looked at them, at the hand Gandalf had rested soft and warm on Dori's shoulder, and nodded softly to himself.

"Brother of mine," he said, with the smallest of smirks and a soft look in his eye, "I wouldn't dream of it."

Because when a wizard's love passed, or was perforce parted, a brother's love endured, and that was why Dori could offer, each and every time. That, and not his own power, was why he had strength enough to be delicate, when he found he had to, and when he found he wanted to.

And oh, he thought, watching the soft and rueful smile beneath silver hair, watching Gandalf sit at peace behind him, oh, how very much did he want to.

There were times, thought Dori son of Vestri, when it was good to be the fussy one. 

Even, or especially, for a dwarf.

**Author's Note:**

> I know Kori is usually the name for the brothers' father. I picked Vestri from the Dvergatal almost entirely because I think it's prettier, since I don't think either is canon. *grins sheepishly* A rather shallow reason, I know. Um. My apologies?


End file.
